


pray for this sinner

by reclamation



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: Javert has kneeled on the hard floorboards of a church before this, though he has never done so with such dedicated fervor until today.





	pray for this sinner

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works.

Javert has kneeled on the hard floorboards of a church before this, though he has never done so with such dedicated fervor until today. But it is not the cross he looks up at like a penitent now. When he turns his eyes upwards, Valjean’s face hovers uncertainly over his own even with Javert bracketed between his thighs.

The air is stale. Too warm. The open room around them is stifling, as it is every Sunday. Javert does not mind, but he leaves mass every week at Valjean’s side with the uncomfortable slide of sweat down his back and behind his knees. He does not mention it, because it would mean suffering Valjean’s earnest concern over a trivial matter, and his discomfort goes blessedly unnoticed.

Today must be worse than usual, because Valjean’s cheeks were pink even before Javert took to his knees. Perhaps it is from his position on the floor or from the hands he splays over Valjean’s thighs.

Javert looks at Valjean, and he keeps looking. Every line etched into that weathered face has been committed to memory, but he continues because he likes to look and because Valjean does not seem to mind. Valjean flushes further, opening his mouth as if to say something, but he only makes an inquiring noise that is so quiet it is almost lost in the short distance between them.

The moment the priest had left them, murmuring his appreciation that Valjean had agreed to watch over the grounds while he attended to some emergency, Javert stretched himself up from his seat beside Valjean before lowering himself slowly between Valjean’s legs. He was sure Valjean would not allow it. He expected immediate protest. None came.

To his surprise, Valjean had only brought his hands to cradle Javert’s jaw, fingers hooking comfortably around the bone so that his fingertips lie against the sensitive skin of his neck. The pad of his thumb rests at the corner of his lips. Slowly, the fingers leave his face and drop to his shoulders.

There is no protest, but they are locked in position, unmoving.

Then it is not enough to look.

Javert drums his fingers where they rest. There is no response. Valjean is motionless beneath his touch, eyes fixed on Javert, and his hands rest on his knees. So Javert leans backwards until he can smooth a careful thumb over each gnarl of knuckle one by one—first the right hand and then the left—as if he were counting off a decade on the rosary. The gesture is for him and Valjean alone; there is no mass, no hovering priest, no parishioners. He could not do this if there were. But the heavy doors shut long ago and will not be opened again soon. Everything is silent and still, save for the beat of his own heart, thudding through his hollow chest and the vulnerable stretch of his offered throat.

From this position, Javert’s knees and neck ache, but it means little when Valjean allows this with his eyes shuttered and dark. The first time, Javert hadn’t known what to make of such an expression. To see it on Valjean’s face while he is seated in a pew is almost too much when he knows where such a look leads.

“Are you finished praying?” Javert asks.

The corner of Valjean’s mouth lifts to a smile, a rare sight even so many months after coming through the worst together.

“I am finished now,” Valjean says. There is the slightest emphasis on the word 'now,' and Javert appreciates the wry humor.

Eventually, Valjean returns the question, most likely out of politeness: “Are you?”

In answer, Javert runs his thumb over Valjean’s knuckles once again. The motion is slower, more deliberate this time.

His devotion must be too obvious; the newborn smile on Valjean’s face melts into the suggestion of a frown. Javert repeats the motion of his thumb defiantly, savoring the feel of worn skin over the bone of Valjean’s hand. Valjean’s frown only deepens. He suspects that he knows what Valjean is thinking to cause the change—less than a week ago, they had a terse conversation. Valjean had broached the topic, weaving around what he wanted to say until Javert had snapped, ‘Stop dithering. Out with it already.’ It had not gone well from there. Valjean rose to the challenge determinedly: ‘I fear you’re replacing your devotion to the law with—’ and there he had stopped, unable to continue. Self-conscious in his concern. He had held back a snarl—Valjean’s worry should never invoke such a response, and it is his own failing that it remains an instinctual reaction after so many years—and instead restrained himself to a muttered, ‘Replacing the law with  _what_ , Valjean?  _You_?’ From there, the argument dissolved into embarrassment before it was truly born, as Javert knew it would, and the topic went untouched thereafter.

What does it matter, he thinks, if Valjean had—perhaps—been correct? If there is one man who could act as a lodestar in a world beyond the law’s justice, it is Valjean. Whether or not the man himself would will it.

Javert walked away from that one with his own words echoing in his ears. Worse is how the remembrance of Valjean’s reaction, which was abashed and hesitant, will resurface again and again when he expects it least. He sees it now in the shadow of Valjean’s frown. Guilt drags along his insides, tiny hooks catching at him until he grimaces.

He pushes forward, his chest knocking Valjean’s legs wider apart while the pads of his thumbs drag along Valjean’s thighs. He means it to distract himself as much as Valjean.

“I—” Valjean starts, but the word is barely more than a breath, carrying no weight. He does not move to stop the progression of Javert’s hands.

This week’s mass was on selflessness. The priest—a nervous sort of man—had reminded Valjean of the subject before disappearing, as if Valjean would need to be coaxed into the favor. Javert had been offended on Valjean’s behalf, though Valjean didn’t seem to mind.

“Let me do this for you,” Javert says. Valjean falls to silence.

Once, Javert would not have been able to offer this at all, much less to Valjean. He would have been ashamed just to think of such a thing. Since then, he has learned that it does not matter what he would have thought before of a man doing what he is now, how his hackles would have risen at the mere idea of such disrespect for religious authority. It does not matter, because so long as he can feel the warmth of Valjean’s body and see the clear affection in his eyes and draw out the pleased sounds he knows so well, the reward outweighs any shame. He will do it gladly whether they are in their bed or, apparently, under the unseeing eyes of the crucifix.

Javert forces himself to pause and wait for a response, although he wants nothing more than to continue touching Valjean. He has banished that frown with fingers and mouth before. He would like to do so again, and he is not above begging for the opportunity. But he waits.

“We’ll be caught.”

“We are alone. The priest will not return. He told you as much himself.”

Valjean regards him for some time. Long enough that Javert wonders if he will be gently pushed away.

Then, he takes up Javert’s right hand, cupping it in one of his own, and sweeps two of his fingers from the base of the palm to the sensitive pad of Javert’s smallest finger. Light falls upon their intertwined fingers in jagged sections of color, filtered through the mosaics that surround them. Javert might look to see whether the patches of reds and blues come from the image of a martyr or an angel or the Christ Himself, if he could tear his eyes from Valjean.

When Valjean seems content to continue to caress his hand in strokes, slow enough to make Javert bite his lip, he cannot stop himself from shifting his weight. It is only a slight movement. Valjean’s frown remains, though it has taken on a thoughtful cast. Javert waits, steeled against each sweet stroke across his hand. He nearly shifts again, stamps down on the impulse before it is allowed to become anything more than a shiver that raises the hairs on his neck.

Valjean does not move away. He does not usher Javert to his feet. The longer they remain so, the more unsteady Javert’s breath, the more he finds himself looking at Valjean’s mouth rather than his eyes, the more the heat inside him builds. But Valjean looks and says nothing.

“Yes,” Valjean agrees, without further prompting.

The word falls over Javert, meaningless. It is incomprehensible from Valjean’s mouth in  _this_  place, despite being exactly what he wants to hear. But Valjean presses a quick kiss to the back of his entrapped hand. It’s a common gesture, one often used since they first came together, inexperienced and hesitant. Usually it is paired with hushed words, words Valjean frequently whispers into his ear and over sweat-damp skin, but he can hear them even when they remain unspoken and even while Valjean’s eyes remain uncertain.

Valjean is still holding his hand. His fingers find and massage the thin stretch of skin between thumb and forefinger. He will not attempt to free it so long as Valjean wants to touch. He has no compunction about using Valjean’s hand for leverage. He grips Valjean, a firm clasp that brings them even closer together.

Like this, they are eye-to-eye. All of Javert’s weight is pressed to the hard points of his knees. An inch further and there is no space between them at all.

Javert craves the intimacy of kissing—the always novel feeling of that particular mouth under his own. He craves all of Valjean. For Valjean it is clearly more than that. Valjean kisses as if he cannot believe he has the right to do so; his lips are at once tentative and ravenous, pressing with hesitation to Javert’s mouth before trying to coax Javert into deepening the kiss until it is slick and wet and anything but unsure. Even so many months later, Valjean waits to be confident of his welcome, waits for Javert’s to move beyond a mere chaste brush of lips.

Here, in the light of holy candles, Valjean’s other hand comes to cup his cheek while and his mouth falls open immediately with a low noise. It is almost a moan. Javert wants to hear it again. He pulls away after a few long kisses, and Valjean follows, searching for more. When he realizes Javert is staying purposefully out of reach, his eyes blink open. They are clear of uncertainty. Javert watches the path of wet tongue as Valjean wets his lips, and he soaks in how very eager he looks: His chest hitches beneath his shirt, and his fingers hold onto Javert’s face with a firmness that begins to border on something other than gentle. Javert cannot deny him this simple pleasure; he kisses Valjean again, hoping for another reaction. By the time he ends the kiss, there is need in Valjean’s gripping hands and the shape beneath the front of his trousers is unmistakable.

Just a few kisses and Valjean is an obscene tableau—the very picture of a saint tempted.

“We do not know how long he’ll be,” Valjean says, voice rasping.

“It will be long enough,” Javert says. Then he adds for good measure, “Please.”

Valjean nods.

“You want this?” Javert asks, for clarification.

Another nod is enough for him. Valjean agrees, and he will not question it.

In reward, Javert presses another lingering kiss to Valjean’s lips. A soft nip leaves Valjean’s mouth open in a gasp. He presses his advantage, tongue drawing along Valjean’s until his breath comes in soft puffs against Javert’s face.

Javert enjoys the kissing—cherishes it—but there are other things he would like to do with his mouth.

It is easy to see: himself on the floor of a church, Valjean’s prick buried in his throat.

The image wracks through his whole body, causing a long shiver from the top of his head to his grounded knees. Until this point, Javert had no real plan for how to go about this. He only knew that he  _wanted_. A number of possibilities preoccupy him. Most are more than he can ask for in this moment—more than Valjean could allow, even in the wake of that ‘yes’. He thinks of running his lips along the bared line where the muscle of Valjean’s chest meets his collarbone, nudging Valjean back so he can straddle his hips and test the endurance of the old wooden pew in earnest, licking along the tender skin behind Valjean’s knee just to make him shudder as he does without fail—

“I do,” Valjean says, releasing Javert’s hand.

Javert’s newly free hand finds its way to the collar of Valjean's shirt immediately. He moves again so that his palm rests over Valjean's arm.

Then it is Valjean’s turn to plead: “Javert, please.”

He would play the role of tabernacle, Javert thinks, and take all of Valjean into himself for safekeeping whenever it was asked of him. He need not even ask.

Maybe it would be blasphemy to do this if he answered to any power higher than Valjean. He has found that path, even with readily offered guidance, unavailable to him. God does not fill the new, hungry pit within him. God is a mystery, as much a mystery as this new life he finds himself in, but he knows Valjean. And the closer Javert is to him, the closer to heaven. Of this he is sure. It does not matter if he feels no closer to God sitting through some interminable mass, because he finds all he needs in the kiss of an earthbound saint.

“Please,” Valjean says, again.

“You’re impatient,” Javert says, “for someone who was complaining not so long ago.”

Then, he commands, already reaching out, “Get yourself out, Valjean.”

Without giving Valjean time to respond, Javert draws his hand lower, illustrating his meaning with a touch. It is good to watch Valjean squirm as he is fondled, stretching his legs out until his trousers are pulled taut under Javert’s teasing fingers. He allows it for the space of several breaths before asking, “Or would you like me to..?”

Valjean hesitates still. Javert imagines him on the brink of protest. No protest comes.

He watches as Valjean’s trembling fingers work at the fastenings of his trousers. It would be easier, likely, if Javert moved to give him room to work. Instead, he leans in closer so that Valjean’s fingers brush against his chest as they go about the task. Finally, the cloth falls open. Javert pushes it aside, herding Valjean’s hands out of his way at the same time.

It isn’t until Valjean’s hands fall away, leaving himself exposed, that Javert realizes he was holding his breath. He pulls air into his lungs hard, and feels dizzy with either the breathlessness or the reality of what they are doing and how much Valjean will allow him.

“That is a sight,” he says, just to say something. He wraps his fingers around Valjean’s prick to keep from saying anything else.

Valjean is hot and hard in his grip. God, they have barely begun, but he is aching just from this much. It centers in a nearly painful throb between his legs, and worsens with every beat of his heart to see this: Valjean’s prick lying heavy with interest across his palm, hips inching up into Javert’s light grip for more contact, and backlit by stained glass angels.

Javert should be ashamed that he has brought them both to this. He is not.

An hour before, Javert had stood mere feet away from this spot, and kneeled with his mouth open to receive the Eucharist upon his tongue. It feels no different to bend his head and put his lips around the crown of Valjean’s cock. He keeps his gaze on Valjean as he does, although the harsh, red-hued light from the windows strikes his eyes at the new angle. But it is worth it to have his eyes on Valjean’s and Valjean’s on him with the moment suspended.

There is a light stroke—Valjean’s thumb—along Javert’s cheek.

“Javert,” Valjean says, quiet. Reverent.

Valjean gasps when he takes the rest into his mouth, and the fingers stroking the side of his face turn uncoordinated.

The priest could return, he thinks. The man said he would take some time, but he could walk in again and see Javert’s head bent over Valjean’s lap. Still he wants nothing more than to do this for Valjean.

He keeps looking up for as long as he can, taking in how Valjean’s eyes fly to the ceiling before dropping to Javert again, mouth moving silently. Valjean always appears so startled by pleasure and so restrained in joy.

Then, and only then, Javert allows his own eyes to close.

The relief is immediate, although the red light still burns behind his eyelids. He cannot see, but his senses are filled all the same. Javert can smell the permeating scent of incense from the last mass and the clean sweat of Valjean’s skin. It is too quiet, because Valjean barely makes a sound, even while he is hard and eager over Javert’s tongue. Although Valjean’s breathing is more pronounced, the empty room overwhelms even those tiny noises, and he wishes Valjean would speak to fill the silence around them. The words would not matter. He suspects that Valjean’s voice would fill the nave as well as any priest’s might. Better even.

Fingers push into the hair along his scalp as Valjean finds his voice with a wordless, hard-won sound. At the same time, Valjean’s hips twitch upwards from his seat, accompanied by a screeching protest from the wooden pew. Javert lets his fingers fall away to encourage the movement, and finds a hold with one hand on the side of Valjean’s thigh while the other ventures under Valjean’s shirt to explore the flat muscle there.

Valjean moans again. It is only a slight sound. Muffled—it is likely that he is biting his lip, though they are alone. It is not loud, but seems overly so in the quiet. A little louder and the noise might have echoed from one pillar to the next, until it had traveled the wide expanse of the room and returned to them again. Javert’s eyes are still closed, but he imagines Valjean cannot help but cast a worried look to the doors. Even so, Valjean is all the harder on his tongue, the shallow thrusts more pronounced.

There is another muffled sound; he is trying to keep quiet. Javert, meanwhile, is trying to draw out any noise he can, lips sliding over Valjean’s cock faster and harder.

It is a balance, one well-practiced, to find the point of comfortably managing his own heaving breaths out as he tries to lick and suck and drive Valjean to distraction. Finally, he is rewarded with another sound and a hard flex of Valjean’s hips that nearly has him choking.

Even with his eyes closed, Javert can feel the apology in Valjean’s body as everything stills. Fingers lightly touch his jaw, questioning. Frustration bubbles up in his throat, making his next swallow around Valjean’s cock an awkward thing. He tightens his grip on Valjean’s leg, digging his fingertips into the firm muscle, and Valjean’s body gives at once—his hips rock forward again, sending a hymnal plummeting to the ground with a loud crack, as Valjean’s spine curls into an arch against the unforgiving wood behind him and his stomach pulls taut.

At last, the nave is filled with sound as the pew complains with each movement of Valjean’s hips, punctuated by the quiet moans Valjean can no longer hold back. Each jerk of Valjean’s hips sends another creak through the cavernous room. It is perfect—he is overwhelmed. He is drowning with Valjean stretching his mouth wide, incense cloying in his nose, and heat, so much heat that Javert may as well be scorched alive in a lake of fire.

“Oh,” Valjean says, and it is barely a word. He continues, “That is good. Very good.”

Javert opens his eyes, sensing the end of the chase, though he must squint through the glare of sunlight. He finds that he does not mind.

Valjean looks strained, everything about him pulled tight under the attention of Javert’s mouth. He says, “I—”

Javert pulls off long enough to say, “I know,” lips skimming across a vein, wet and shining with spit, with each syllable. Valjean looks as if he wants to pull Javert up, fingers drifting from his neck to his arms, so Javert shakes his head. “No, don't. Like this.”

He is held in place. It is almost certainly accidental, because Valjean is always so careful of his strength, but Javert cannot budge the grasp around his arms. A wave crashes through his chest, threatening to undo him where he kneels from nothing more than Valjean’s grip and the beginnings of the taste of salt in his mouth. He leans down, teasing over the head of Valjean’s prick before opening his lips again to take him in. Javert moans—at the taste, at the immediate response of Valjean’s hips, at the need that reverberates through him—but the sound is lost in the noise Valjean makes freely now.

At the end, Javert’s lips are tingling. Valjean’s fingers bear down, not quite enough to bruise. His jaw joins his knees in reminding him he is not a young man. But Javert focuses on the hold of Valjean’s hands, clamped around his head and shoulder. Too hard to be a benediction. It is more like a master keeping a dog in place by the scruff, and waits as Valjean’s hips lurch up one last time. There is the loudest noise yet, a soft-edged thing, the familiar signal of the end. Then there is only the task of swallowing.

Javert draws back. His thighs shake and he sways. He feels unsteady, as if it were he who found his release rather than Valjean. The ready pulse between his legs says otherwise. And the bitterness in his mouth.

“You were right,” Valjean says, voice rough.

“Right?” Javert asks, confused.

“We had enough time after all,” Valjean says. He is smiling again.

“It would not be much better to be found like this,” Javert answers, indicating Valjean’s open trousers.

Warm, broad hands brace under his arms. This time, when Valjean hauls him up, he does not say anything. Valjean arranges him into a half-sprawl over his lap. Fingertips touch at Javert’s waist, light and playful.

“And what of you? Shall we have time for me to take care of you, do you think?”

Javert does not know the answer. Moreover, it is not important. Worship is not a mutual affair, and Javert is happy to ignore his own desires, regardless of how tempting it is to push up into the hand Valjean would freely offer. Or his mouth.

But there will be time for that yet.

Perhaps he will use this memory to warm himself tonight until he, too, finds a belated release. He could revisit it in his mind as he spreads Valjean out on their shared bed, and puts his mouth to the all those places on his body that remain hidden here. He’ll recall the stifling room, the incense, and how Valjean shuddered beneath him.

He says, “Later.”

Javert takes up Valjean’s hands, moving them so that they are clasped between both of his own palms. This time, he can feel the smile on Valjean’s lips as they come together over the bridge of their reverently steepled fingers.

If it wouldn’t make Valjean frown again, and if the question wasn’t so many minutes removed, he would say: now,  _now_  I am done praying.


End file.
